Just for a Night (9 page)

Oh, Marina, Marina, you fool. This man is a past master of such games. Didn't Henry warn you? Did you honestly think you could play with this kind of fire and not get burned?

No more, she resolved bitterly. No more.

‘You're not at all sorry,' she flung at him. ‘You planned this. I know you did.'

‘I planned nothing,' he denied curtly. ‘I give you my word. As a gentleman.'

‘Then you have a strange idea of what constitutes being a gentleman. Or is it that you think I'm
not
a lady?'

His blue eyes blazed. ‘What just happened between us has nothing to do with being a gentleman and a lady, and everything to do with being a man and a woman! God, if I'd planned this, do you honestly think I would be taking you into that stupid theatre at this point? I would be ordering the driver to go round in endless circles while I made endless love to you.

‘I can't win, no matter what I do, can I? That's what's been so difficult about this situation from the start. Neither of us has been free to admit—and act on—how we feel. But I see now there are certain things beyond society's ideas of right and wrong. Beyond rules. What we feel for each other is one of those things. What will be will be!'

‘What will be for
me
is what
I
decide!' she argued, though shakily. ‘And I do not decide to be one of your passing passions! Come Sunday, I am going to fly back to Sydney, and Shane. And I'm going to forget you ever existed!'

‘You think you can fight the fates, Marina?' he ground out, an angry bitterness in those beautiful blue eyes of his. ‘I think not…'

She only had to recall herself a minute ago, lying half-naked and abandoned beneath him, to concede what he was saying was true. But that didn't make the truth any more palatable.

‘You are not to touch me again in this disgusting car,' came her heated protest. ‘You will get rid of it and take me home in a taxi. Give me your word. As a gentleman,' she finished challengingly.

He glared at her for one long, excruciatingly tense moment, then slowly turned his head away, his chin tipping up proudly. ‘You have it,' he ground out.

The car slid to a halt as he spoke. The back door opened and the real world rushed back in.

Noise. Lights. Crowds.

Marina blinked and recoiled. No, she wanted to scream. No, close the door again. I take it all back. Tell the chauffeur to drive round in circles. Undress me. Make endless love to me.

Don't take me out there feeling like this! Don't make me sit next to you all night in a darkened theatre without being able to touch you. Don't torture me with this awful craving, this unacceptable, unendurable, unfulfilled desire!

But he did take her out there. He did make her sit beside him without so much as holding her hand. And he capped off the evening by taking her home in a taxi and not speaking a single word, let alone kissing her or touching her in any way.

She was in a terrible state by the time James silently opened the apartment door and waved her inside. She was on the verge of humiliating herself totally by begging him to make love to her right there on the black and white tiled floor…when Henry walked down the stairs.

‘Good evening, My Lord, Miss Marina.' He nodded
sombrely towards her. ‘I trust the play was enjoyable?'

The play? She hadn't heard a word of it, had no idea if it had been a drama or a comedy.

‘It was excellent,' she said, and wondered how she could sound so normal when it felt as if ants were crawling all over her skin, when her breasts ached unbearably and a liquid heat scorched between her thighs. Never had Shane made her feel like this. She wanted to slap James's handsome face, rake her nails down his back, sob into his shoulder.

The valet nodded sagely. ‘There is nothing like a night at the London theatre. I do apologise again for the limousine, My Lord, but it was all the hire car company could give me at short notice. William said to tell you that the car will be ready for tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow?' James echoed, frowning. ‘What's happening tomorrow?'

The valet smiled an uncharacteristically wide smile. ‘The hospital rang soon after you left this evening. They say Rebecca can go home for the weekend.'

‘But that's wonderful!' James exclaimed.

‘Indeed, My Lord. I spoke to the child herself and she was so excited. But she doesn't want to come here. She wants to go down to Winterborne Hall.'

‘But of course! Anything she wants.'

‘She…er…especially asked if Miss Marina could go too.'

Marina's stomach contracted fiercely.

‘She can't, I'm afraid,' James said sharply. ‘She has a plane to catch on Sunday.'

Henry looked a little sheepish. ‘Er…I took the liberty of ringing the airline, and they are more than happy to exchange Miss Marina's ticket for Monday's flight. It seems the Sunday flight is always rather overbooked.'

James's expression was one of total exasperation. ‘That's all very well, Henry, but I believe Marina is anxious to get back to Sydney and her fiancé. Isn't that so, Marina?'

Marina had to admire his ongoing fortitude. Clearly he
had
decided to fight the good fight to the bitter end, as he'd said.

But, perversely, his noble self-sacrifice only made her love him all the more. And
want
him all the more. Feeling as she did at that moment, his putting the decision in her hands appealed to her dark side, and that awful voice which would not be denied.

He won't be able to resist you, no matter what he's decided. Not away from Henry's watchful eyes. Not down there, in one of those enormous bedrooms he's sure to occupy. Maybe he'll even have a four-poster bed…

‘I would dearly love to come down to Winterborne Hall with Rebecca,' she heard herself saying, with only the smallest quaver in her voice. ‘You did the right thing about changing my flight, Henry. Don't make such a fuss, James,' she said, turning to him. ‘It's only one night, after all. Shane can wait one more night.'

Their eyes locked and his widened slightly.

And then he knew. Knew what she was saying. She
would give him one night. And give
herself
one night. With him.

She watched him struggle with what she knew had to be a wickedly compelling temptation.

‘It's your decision,' he said slowly, but his fists remained balled by his side.

‘I've already made up my mind,' she said.

‘So be it,' he said, and as he stared deep into her eyes his own were strangely cold, yet full of a dark triumph.

He was rationalising her decision, she realised. Seeing it for what it
wasn't
. A night of selfish, secret lust which would not stop either of them from forging ahead and eventually marrying others. He did not understand that she loved him with all her heart, that she would never marry any man but him, that she would go to the grave a spinster rather than settle for anything less than what she knew tomorrow night would bring.

And so the deed was done, and their fate sealed.

But was it fate? Marina wondered as she lay wide-eyed in the Rose Room bed later that night. Some kind of warped destiny which had thrown them together and forced them along this path?

She did not know. She only knew she had to do this. Call it fate. Or destiny. Or written.

Tomorrow night she would spend in James's bed.

Tomorrow night…

Her eyes slid to the bedside clock. Just after three. Would she never fall asleep?

No, she accepted with a small, dry laugh. There was no sleep for the wicked. No sleep at all.

‘I'
M GOING
home! I'm going home!'

Rebecca was bouncing up and down on the back seat of the Bentley between James and Marina.

‘Do be still, Rebecca,' James said sharply.

Rebecca pulled a face at Marina. ‘Uncle James only calls me Rebecca like that when he's in a bad mood.'

James sighed. ‘I am not in a bad mood. I'm simply tired. Marina and I went out last night and I was late getting to sleep.'

‘I didn't sleep much, either,' Rebecca said, beginning to bounce again. ‘I was too excited.'

‘Yes, well, I understand exactly what you mean,' was her uncle's dry remark. ‘I was pretty excited myself.' And he threw Marina a scorching look over the child's bobbing head.

‘Were you, Uncle James? Oh, look. There's some horses. Can I go look at our horses when I get home, Uncle James?'

‘Whatever you like, sweetie. Here, come and sit up on my lap for a minute so you can see better out of the window.'

She scrambled up onto James's lap straight away, hands and nose instantly glued to the glass.

Marina resisted the impulse to feel jealous.

‘You have horses too?' she asked.

He shrugged. ‘I inherited them from my brother, who was racing and gambling mad. They're not riding horses. They're thoroughbred brood mares. Laurence's wife, Joy, was also mad about jumpers, and she had a whole stable of hacks. I eventually sold them, because there was no one left who wanted to ride and they cost too much to keep properly fed and stabled for nothing. But I kept the brood mares as an investment. We have plenty of good grazing land and my estate manager said it would be foolish to sell them up. He said some of the foals would bring in a small fortune. And he was right, thank God.'

‘Why do you say, “Thank God”? Was the estate in financial trouble when your brother died?'

‘That's putting it mildly. Laurence had run up an overdraft a mile high, the house and land had a second mortgage and several of my father's prized paintings had been exchanged for copies—the originals sold to South American millionaires. A good number of antiques had also already found their way to Sotheby's—just to support two wastrels, flitting around the world.'

‘What's a wastrel?' Rebecca asked, reminding them both that there was a child listening.

‘A good-for-nothing person who spends money and doesn't work,' James answered bluntly.

‘Well, you're not one, Uncle James. You're
always
working at the bank. And Marina's not one because she's a teacher!' The little girl frowned, then. ‘I'm not one, am I, Uncle James? I mean, I don't work, and I know it costs a lot to keep me in hospital.'

James gave the serious-faced child a hug. ‘Children can't be wastrels, sweetie. That's only for grown-ups. And I wouldn't care how much it cost me to make you well.'

‘You won't have to pay much more, Uncle James, because I'm going to be perfectly well in no time.'

Marina's heart turned over. She prayed that would be so with all her heart. The thought that the transplant might
not
work in the end brought a lump to her throat. She glanced out of her window, willing away tears by concentrating on the passing countryside.

It was nothing like anything you would ever see in Australia. So ordered, and so very green, despite James saying earlier they'd been having a drought. Marina had smiled at that. She doubted the English knew the real meaning of the word ‘drought'. Let them travel out into the outback during a drought and see what
years
—not a single season—without rain could do. Let them see bone-dry creek-beds and the bleached skeletons of long-dead animals on the banks. Or the rotting carcasses of newly dead ones.

She shuddered herself at the image, which had actually confronted her once during a camping trip into the red heart of Australia.

Not that Australia was all like that. It was only the interior deserts which were so merciless. The capital cities and large tracts of pasturelands along the coastlines came as a pleasant surprise to some overseas visitors, who thought Australia was one big outback.

Marina especially loved Sydney, with its many
trees, its beautiful harbour and beaches. Unfortunately, her mother's house and ten-acre property was right on the rural outskirts of Sydney, quite some way from the ocean which might have tempered the soaring summer temperatures. Bringelly reached the high thirties with regular monotony during the summer months.

Marina had to admit she was not fond of such heat. Now that she was more used to England's cooler climate, she much preferred it. She'd grown to like London, too. And she certainly liked what she was seeing of the countryside.

They were on the A3 something-or-other, travelling south-west of London at considerable speed, as were all the other cars, heading wherever they were heading for the weekend. Actually, they'd been on various A3 something-or-others since leaving the M3 motorway some time back.

‘You didn't want to go and see Stonehenge while you were down this way, did you?' James asked politely from his corner.

She looked over and noted that he had sensibly re-fastened Rebecca into her seat belt. ‘No, thanks. I saw it last time and thought it highly disappointing. Maybe if you could walk amongst the stones themselves in the moonlight, you might get some of the right atmosphere. But not in broad daylight from behind a roped-off section where you walk around like sheep in a queue longer than Pitt Street.'

James laughed. ‘You'll never make a tourist if you don't like sightseeing queues.'

‘I agree with you. That's why my last touristy trip over here was my one and only.'

‘You haven't travelled anywhere else?'

‘Not outside of Australia. I've been into the outback and down to Tasmania.'

‘So you haven't been to Paris? Or to Rome?'

‘No.'

‘Would you like to go?'

She gave him a suspicious look. Surely he wasn't going to suggest he take her? Surely not!

His smile was wry. ‘Just answer the question, Marina. It's not a trick.'

‘I'd go if I could go first class,' she said truthfully. ‘My days of economy travel are behind me. I'm very much a once-bitten, twice-shy girl.' And make of that what you will, Your Lordship!

‘I'll keep that in mind,' he murmured, and fell irritatingly silent.

Marina scowled to herself.

See what you get for magnanimously planning to let him sleep with you tonight?
came the predictable taunt in her head.
Now he thinks you're a cheap, two-timing tramp. No, not cheap. An expensive two-timing tramp who can probably be bought for illicit weekends in Paris and Rome and God knows where. Next thing you know he'll suggest you fly back to Australia via Paris and Rome with him as tour guide. But the only sights he'll want you to see are plenty of hotel bedrooms!

You don't have to sleep with him tonight,
her conscience piped up.
You didn't say you would in so
many words. If and when he tries to take delivery of what he thinks you promised, you can claim he misinterpreted that look, that you had no intention of doing any such thing!

Marina closed her eyes and shook her head. She couldn't do that. The truth was that
she
wanted to sleep with
him
. The extent of her desire had kept her awake all night. Even now, inside, every nerve-ending was tingling in anticipation of the coming evening. Although exhausted from her sleepless night, she felt more alive than she ever had before.

Did James feel like that? she wondered, and turned her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye.

He was wearing the most casual clothes she'd seen him in this past week. Pale grey trousers and a lightweight crew-necked sweater in broad horizontal stripes of grey and navy. His casual loafers were navy. He still looked a million dollars—his black hair perfectly groomed and that tantalising pine perfume wafting from his body.

She, herself, was wearing the tailored black trousers which went with her take-anywhere black suit, teamed today with a cream V-necked cashmere cardigan which she'd thrown into her luggage at the last moment in case the evenings were chilly. Although the sun was shining, Marina still found the air crisp.

Rebecca had insisted on wearing a rather tomboyish outfit of white T-shirt and khaki overalls, completing it with a white baseball cap.

She'd told Marina in confidence that she wasn't
going to wear girl clothes until she had hair and looked like a girl. Marina could see her point. Rebecca's bald head would have looked incongruous above a frilly dress. And she simply refused to wear a wig. She said they were hot and itchy and made her look silly!

Marina glanced up from her survey of Rebecca's clothes to find James watching her. For a moment the air between them was fraught with a sizzling tension. But then he smiled, and for a single marvellous moment Marina felt as she might have felt if they had been a real family—husband, wife and daughter—going for a drive in the countryside.

Her heart swelled with a brief burst of happiness, only to contract fiercely when she realised such a fantasy would never come true. It would be Lady Tiffany who would sit here in future years. James's wife. The Countess of Winterborne. Not silly slept-with-and-discarded Marina.

Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for James's smile faded abruptly, to be replaced by a troubled frown. They stared at each other and Marina could have sworn that the misery in her eyes was reflected in his, that they both longed for the same thing, but both knew it would never come about.

‘We're nearly there!' Rebecca suddenly shrieked. ‘Look, there's the gates, Uncle James. Oh, just you wait and see this, Marina. It's the prettiest place you'll ever see!'

Marina dragged herself out of the black pit in a valiant effort to respond to the child's enthusiasm. She
could not for a moment imagine that one of England's ancestral homes would be ‘pretty'. But then, a seven-year-old girl would not have too many adjectives at her command. One only had to look at the ancient wall and gateposts that the more modern electronic gates were attached to in order to get a hint of what the house would be like. Dark and grey and forbidding.

They passed through the gates, which had opened and begun closing behind them as if by magic, but presumably by a remote control operated by William. On one gatepost sat a small security camera, and below, attached to the post, was a black box with a big black button which no doubt callers pressed so that they could be vetted before the gates were opened.

Just inside the gates on Marina's side stood a simply awful old house, which looked dilapidated and deserted. Although two-storeyed, it was small and narrow and gloomy. It had tiny windows and two black chimneys and ivy growing all over the walls. There was no garden to speak of. Just rambling rose bushes.

‘That isn't the gatehouse Henry was sent to live in, is it?' she asked, aghast.

James nodded. ‘Now you know why I had to bring him to London. The only reason I haven't had the damned thing torn down is because it's protected by a well-known charity. I ask you, what and who are they protecting it for?'

‘Not me,' Rebecca said, shuddering. ‘It's creepy.'

‘I suppose it has a long history,' Marina ventured.

‘Undoubtedly,' James agreed. ‘But it is
my
gatehouse, isn't it? I should be able to do what I damned well please with it! I thank my lucky stars I've been able to pull the estate out of the red, or else I might have had to hand over the place to just such an institution, who would undoubtedly open the place to the public and have me spend every summer weekend standing on the front steps and smiling at those long queues of tourists you adore so much.'

Now she looked at him,
more
aghast. ‘But you'd hate that!'

‘Life can be full of doing things you hate,' he returned, and she had a feeling he was no longer talking about houses.

‘I hate needles!' Rebecca piped up. ‘And I still have to have them. Stop talking to Marina, Uncle James. We're coming to the pretty bit.'

The narrow, winding road dipped unexpectedly, plunging with amazing speed from open fields into a type of forest. Huge trees on either side stretched up and over, meeting in the middle of the road. The summer sun attempted to pierce the canopy of leaves but could only manage a dappled light. Fractured rays of yellow danced across the shadowy avenue, creating a magical and quite fanciful atmosphere.

Suddenly they were in another world, where it was possible to believe in fairies and elves, in Robin Hood and Maid Marion, in Prince Charmings and Sleeping Beauties and happy ever after.

‘It's the enchanted wood!' Marina exclaimed.

As quickly as they had descended into the fairyland
they burst out of it, and there, on a rise at the end of a long straight driveway, stood Winterborne Hall.

It wasn't dark or forbidding. Not at all. The walls were made of a creamy grey stone, the roof of a shiny grey slate. It was three storeys high, with a very wide façade.

Not a castle by any means. But a most impressive mansion. Georgian in design, Marina guessed, with its clean lines and the symmetrical placement of windows on either side of the entrance.

‘What do you think?' James asked as the Bentley moved with considerably less speed over the now gravel driveway.

‘It's magnificent,' she praised.

‘So it darned well should be! I've sunk a damned fortune in fixing up the place after Laurence didn't spend a penny on it for years. I had the ivy stripped off the outside and the walls sandblasted last year. You don't think it's too stark now, do you?'

‘Oh, no. It's breathtaking! And so are the grounds.' As far as the eye could see there were rolling green hills, like parkland, with clumps of stately trees. Closer to the house, the wide expanses of lawn gave way to more ordered gardens, with beds of flowering bushes bordering the driveway—possibly hibiscus and definitely fuchsias and oleander—all of them in full bloom. They were covered in masses of gloriously coloured flowers in reds and pinks and white.